


Turn the key, and come home

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Implied Sexual Content, John is a Mess, M/M, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have been dancing around what's between them for years. Will John return to Baker Street, and if so, will things ever be the same?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn the key, and come home

The digital clock shows 1am when Sherlock hears the mechanical snick of the Baker Street lock, followed by a slight increase in traffic noise and the unmistakable sound of someone shuffling in the foyer.

Mrs Hudson is well abed, having returned home from Mrs Turner's at 10pm. There's only one other person with a key to the front door and it doesn't take any deductive reasoning at all to conclude that the visitor is John Watson.

Laying motionless in his own bed, he counts the thirteen heavy steps that bring him to the door of 221B, and holds his breath as John pauses.

_Turn the key, John....come home._

Steps continue up the second set of stairs, taking John up to the second bedroom. Sherlock heaves a heavy sigh. _This is not going to be as easy as I hoped._

While John proceeds up the stairs, Sherlock slips silently out of bed and swings his own bedroom door open, then returns to the warm haven of his sheets. He spares a moment to be thankful that he'd asked Mrs Hudson to strip the bed upstairs. Although the mattress remains on the frame, it will be cold and uninviting. _John will find no comfort there._

The echoing creak of the door on the second floor heralds John's arrival and there's a long pause while the man assesses the abandoned room. Sherlock lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. He can picture the look on John's face in the dim light. Deep tired circles below his eyes, tension furrowing his forehead and beneath it all, the lingering sadness from the abrupt and shattering departure of Mary and his daughter months ago.

Sherlock waits in the darkness, not daring to move. There's a good chance that John will turn around and leave again; return to his cold, lonely flat. He knows grieving can't be rushed, and that if...when John returns to Baker Street, it will be on his own timetable. Sherlock's long ago given up trying to deduce his Doctor, too influenced by sentiment to analyse anything John does. It's equal parts delightful and frustrating; endlessly surprising and forever confusing. So Sherlock does the only thing he can, he waits....and hopes.

John's footsteps echo down the stairs again, the third from the landing creaking and Sherlock's heart contracts with the familiarity of the sound. _Don't leave John, come home, I miss you._

With a bright flash of elation, he hears John's key turn in their lock and there is a faint eldritch light from the outer hallway as he pushes the door open.

Sherlock rolls over, his back is to the bedroom doorway, content in the knowledge that John will settle on the sofa and they will greet the morning together with toast and the jam Sherlock keeps hidden in the top of the cupboard in readiness for this day.

Sherlock is just drifting back to sleep when a gentle hand touches his shoulder. _John_.

"Sherlock. You awake?"

He rolls over, John is standing by the side of his bed shifting from foot to foot. _Nervous, uncomfortable, awkward, feels he's trespassing.....Nothing could be further from the truth._

"John. I heard you come in."

"Oh. I didn't mean to wake you, just wanted to tell you I was here."

"You're always welcome here John, you know that." Sherlock said softly, hoping the depths of truth would be clear in his tone.

John still looks out of place in the doorway, "Yeah, thanks. I just wanted..." he's momentarily lost before continuing, "...a blanket, can I borrow a blanket? For the sofa."

Sherlock knows there's blankets behind the sofa, there always has been. John knows it too, but they wordlessly agree to the deception. This is a delicate dance, one that neither of them know the steps to, both afraid of stepping on toes and breaking something that may never heal properly.

"A blanket? Of course, you can have anything John, you must know that by now." Sherlock knows the words are a risk, but if they're to get out of this blind alley, one of them needs to shine a light. John can choose to ignore them if he wishes, or needs to.

"Thanks." John lays gentle fingers on the blanket on the foot of the bed, lifts the corner and pauses as if considering other words before lifting it into his arms and turning to the door, "...Yeah, thanks...See you in the morning Sherlock."

"You're welcome John," Sherlock whispers sadly as John pads quietly back to the sitting room, "..sleep well." _And so the dance continues._

But John doesn't sleep well. Sherlock lays in the darkness and listens to muffled whimpers and shouts from the sitting room. The need to save John from himself is almost overwhelming and his knuckles are white where he grasps the sheets between his fingers, resisting the urge to run and comfort his friend. He knows it may be too soon and there's a good chance that the nightmares plaguing John are of Sherlock's making as much as the events of the last twelve months. Guilt keeps him pinned to his bed.

Finally the noises quiet and Sherlock thinks John's fallen into an uneasy slumber until the sound of a defeated sigh sounds in the doorway.

"You said anything." John sounds exhausted.

"I did." Sherlock whispers without rolling over.

"It's......cold on the sofa. Can I sleep here?"

"Of course." Sherlock doesn't even question the reason.

He feels the blankets lift. He expected John to settle on the far side of the bed, an 'appropriate' amount of space between them and is surprised when he feels John nestle up behind him fully clothed, spooning against his back.

"OK?" John asks hesitantly.

Sherlock forces himself to relax, to settle against John's chest and not fidget at the unexpected proximity. This isn't something they've ever done, they've never even discussed it. The feeling of shouldn't be as overwhelming as it is, but he's struggling not to stretch and wriggle at the sensation of fabric, with John still inside it, against his skin.

Sherlock let's out a shaky sigh, "Yes. It's fine." _More than fine._

John huffs a tiny laugh, "You can tell me if it's not, I have just climbed into bed with you."

"No," Sherlock says, more firmly, "It's fine. You just...surprised me."

John laughs again, more genuine this time, "Surprised you. Hang on, I want to get that on tape."

Sherlock's rumbling laugh joins John's, "Of course, then you'd need to explain what you'd done to surprise me. I can just see Anderson's face."

"Can we not talk about Anderson in the bedroom, he's spoiling the mood." John's chuckling in earnest now, the tension and nightmares banished as the mood lightens.

Sherlock's laughs subside and he quietly asks, "Are you OK?"

"Yeah, bit better now. Thanks. You seriously OK with me here?"

"In my bed, yes. Spooned up behind me? Unexpected, but yes...." Sherlock pauses before asking a question that will be awkward now, but even more so come morning, "Are you OK with my choice of sleepwear?"

John seems to realise for the first time that the body he's pressed up against is naked, and the hand that was casually resting on Sherlock's hip tenses. "Shit. Sorry."

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise, "John, I've been to the palace in a sheet, I think if I was prudish, you'd know by now."

"Yeah, but..." John makes to roll away and put some space between them before Sherlock reaches to place a hand over John's where it still lays on his hip.

"John....I said yes, I meant it. Don't move away unless it's you that wants to." _Don't move away, please._

There's a long tense pause until John's hand relaxes again and pats him fondly on the hip, "Night Sherlock, and thanks...again."

"No need, John. Sleep well." For the third time that night, Sherlock settles in to rest, revelling at the feeling of John's compact body tight against his own.

John's frustrated sigh disturbs him again around twenty minutes later.

"You really are a lousy bed-partner Doctor Watson," Sherlock mutters fondly, "What's the problem now."

"It's like a bloody oven in here. I think I'm melting." John gripes.

Sherlock laughs again trying to keep the mood light, "It's too cold on the sofa, too hot in here. I'm renaming you Goldilocks."

John's lifted the edge of the blankets and is fanning out some of the heat. "Oh, Ha ha. You're a rubbish friend, Sherlock."

"Says the man letting all my carefully hoarded warmth out. Has it crossed your mind that it could be due to the fact you're fully clothed under three blankets?" Sherlock's humour slips away and a tightness replaces it, a question clear in his voice.

"Well I'm certainly not getting my kit off, we can't both be naked in here." John regretfully stops waving the blankets.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks tiredly.

"Because..," John pauses, "Well Sherlock, because....we don't do that!" John rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

"Oh, that's right!" Sherlock's frustration finally edging into anger and virtually shouts, "I forgot, John. We don't do that!" Sherlock throws back the covers and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away, "Why don't we do that, John? Oh that's right....because you're not gay!" Sherlock stands swiftly, shoulders back and is silent for a moment before stalking around the bed and out the door of the bedroom, slamming it as he exits.

@@@

John lays in the darkness, shocked at Sherlock's outburst. Replaying it in his head he considers he wasn't entirely surprised at the words, more the timing. There had been a tangible 'something' between the two of them virtually since the day they'd met. For one reason or another, the time had never seemed right for John to raise the subject. He stood by his words, he wasn't gay. However, he wasn't straight either. Similarly, he'd long since seen through Sherlock's claim of being 'married to his work'. Perhaps, John thought, the time had come to have the long overdue talk.

John climbs out of bed and pauses, his hand on the doorknob. Given the state Sherlock was in when he stormed out, John leans over and snags Sherlock's robe off the chair. He's not sure how this talk will go, but he's confident it will go better if they're on a level playing field. Consequently, he takes a minute to shuck off his own shirt, jeans and underwear before taking a second robe from the wardrobe and tying it around his waist. Properly outfitted for battle, John proceeds to the sitting room.

Sherlock's tucked up on the sofa, his naked arse facing the room and John has to stifle an inappropriate giggle at the spectacle. If he has any lingering doubts about either Sherlock's modesty or his own interest in his flatmate's body, the long pale back and plush arse put paid to both.

John flicks the kettle on as he passes the kitchen and settled in his chair.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock could be carved of marble for all the reaction he received.

John sighs. _How best to start?_ "Fine, I'll talk to your backside, at least I'll have a pleasant view during the conversation." He watches as the shoulders shifted a little, but there's no other reaction.

"Right, good. Just me talking to myself then. Shouldn't have any trouble keeping up." John wanders back to the kitchen, pouring two cups of tea and returns to place one quietly on the coffee table behind Sherlock, he lays Sherlock's robe beside it.

"OK, here's the thing Sherlock. You and me, what we have...it just..works. Always has, no idea why because I can be a pain in the arse, and so can you. But us together, we just work." John isn't sure how, but he knows Sherlock 's listening intently. Maybe it's something in his posture, but he has the detective's attention, he's sure of it.

"And I'm not sure I could bear losing it, you know...again." There's a sudden tightening in Sherlock's shoulders, as if he's flinching, "No, I'm not bringing that up again, that's done...over. You're back and I'm glad of it...don't doubt it."

John sips at his tea, thinking through what he wants to say next. "I'm going to tell you something Sherlock, and I'm trusting you never to mention it again. Not to me, not to anyone. It's not something I'm proud of." John heaves a heavy breath, "I'm scared, Sherlock. I'm scared shitless most of the time these days. Since Mary, since you...and I'm afraid that I can't function on my own any more and it scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I can't work alone, I can't sleep alone, Jesus, I can barely take a crap alone without the nightmares dogging my steps. And I'm terrified, I'm terrified," John knows he's on the verge of rambling but can't seem to stop the flow of words, "....that if I let you in, if we cross this line, and it doesn't work, that i'm going to take a very long walk off a very short pier." John trails off into silence, feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

John's just considering whether he should just gather his clothes and head back home in the dim pre-dawn light when Sherlock slowly rolls over. Taking in the cup of now cooled tea as well as the robe, he picks the latter up and shrugs it on and looping the belt, drawing the front closed before lifting the cup to his lips and watching John quietly.

The silence was killing him, "Say something, Sherlock."

"My tea's cold." Sherlock smiles at him across the room.

"I was thinking more about what I'd just said. Kind of bared my heart just then."

"Really? I seem to remember a request never to mention it." he smirks over the lip of the cup.

"You remember the bit about you being a pain in the arse? I can tell you that again if you missed that bit." Nevertheless, John is smiling now.

"No...I got that bit. Not the first time I've heard it." Sherlock places his cup down carefully, "And if I'm allowed to address the second before I never mention it again?"

John nods slowly.

"You think you're the only one that's scared...you're not. You think you're the only one who's afraid of losing someone...imagine what that's like for someone who's always been alone." Sherlock pauses, letting that sink in, "Always, John. Imagine what it's like to be completely unequipped to deal with needing someone when they've never needed anyone. Imagine what it's like for someone with an addictive personality to become addicted to the presence of a particular man in their life. Imagine...John...what it's like for me...and then ask if I could ever let you go."

John rises slowly from his chair and crosses the room to silently gather Sherlock in his arms. Placing a gentle hand in Sherlock's curls he draws his friends head down to nestle in the crook of his neck and then releases it to circle his arms around the man's lean frame, pulling their torsos together. Suddenly, there's been too much space between them for too long and he can't abide it any longer. So many years spent holding each other at bay, wasted years failing to recognise that they'd both been running from the one thing that they both needed to keep them strong.

Sherlock smothers a sob by instead presses his lips to John's neck. Then, having found the salt and skin to his taste, continues his exploration inch by inch as John laughs and pulls him from the sofa to the rug on the floor.

The long, endless minutes that follow are much like all adventures that the two men share. Exhilaration, surprise, mysteries to be investigated and solved together, and breathless adrenaline mixed with boyish laughter. At the end, they finish in a joyous, sweaty heap back in Sherlock's bed, limbs tangled together. Gentle caresses and playful pinches, hedonistic licks and teasing bites, groans, and whimpers, and shouts, and cries of joy. And finally...rest; Exhausted, sated and peaceful...rest.


End file.
